


Sensation

by Violets



Series: Jaskier Likes It Rough [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, BDSM, D/s, Established Relationship, Flogging, I was horny sorry, M/M, Oral Sex, RACK - Freeform, Recreational Drug Use, Service Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Wholesome Fun, drugged sex play, masochistic Jaskier, no beta we die like witchers, sex potion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27452137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violets/pseuds/Violets
Summary: The consumption of a rather specific plant adds a new element to their play.Can be read as a stand-alone. The only thing it has in common with my other 'Likes it Rough' fics is the masochistic tendencies.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Jaskier Likes It Rough [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2000728
Comments: 1
Kudos: 75





	Sensation

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Recreational Drug Use during a BDSM scene.
> 
> If you want violence, read anything else I've written. Jaskier's still a masochist, but this fic is a strangely wholesome gift to my partner. :P

Jaskier’s made jokes about it before, of course. Geralt is honestly surprised that the other man ever graduated from Oxenfurt Academy, given the sheer number of rather lewd stories he’s detailed for Geralt’s ‘entertainment’. How does one compose while perpetually legless (in more ways than one) and covered in cum?

Now they’re stumbling through the forest, halfway through a job, because Jaskier ‘remembers’ the foliage, Geralt is no longer sure that his partner was ever joking. At thirty-five, Jaskier is far, far better at scrambling through woodland than he was at eighteen.

He’s also a much worldlier man. He likely tried the plant on a dare or a whim, back then. Now, Jaskier is an insatiable monster, chasing new highs whenever the thrill of the last fades into mundanity. Repeat anything often enough and it becomes commonplace. Jaskier is, without a doubt, an addict.

Not to any particular _substance_ , he’s far too changeable for that. But he’s addicted to _feeling_. When they met, he got his thrills through the excitement of being caught cuckolding, through the ridiculous bare-arsed runs out of towns. A few years into their acquaintance, he gambled entire night’s earnings at Gwent. Geralt later learned that the allure wasn’t doubling his money, though that was always nice, but in the beating Jaskier might garner if he bet slightly more than he could pay.

After that, when Geralt started fucking him in the long stretches they were subject to the wilderness, no brothel to be seen, his highs became exclusively sexual. Jaskier’s always been _experimental_ , to say the least, but it’s no longer anything but trying to get deeper into the vent. That’s how Jaskier describes it. When they play, he’s underneath an air vent and as they start he gets sucked in and gradually floats higher and higher up, until he reaches altitudes usually withheld from humans.

He’s a masochistic little pain-slut. There’re no other words for it. When they started out, five spanks and he’d be dripping and desperate. Now, two hours of heavy play and he’d still wish it’d gone on for longer, drawn out that feeling just a little bit more.

Perhaps that’s why Geralt’s humouring this hunt. It’d be nice to be able to play a little more lightly again. It’s been so long since they _just_ fucked. Geralt actually misses rutting against his lover, both of them coming in their small-clothes and having to quickly find a stream after. It was the type of primal, instinctive, equal pleasure-seeking that he’d never had before he’d had the bard.

They wander around the same patch of wildflowers for over an hour–Geralt knows better than to question Jaskier’s judgement, these days, he just gets so loud and indignant and the noise is truly grating– before Jaskier finally takes a sharp left, hops over a dwindling brook, and fair chucks himself between a circle of rather larger boulders.

“Aha!”, he waves at Geralt as if the other man isn’t a mere three paces behind him. “Found it!”

The plant itself looks nothing special, Geralt notes. Which probably means it could be _lethal._ It’s just like grass, with little miniature trees similar in shape to evergreens popping out in little patches. It could be any number of things, but Jaskier seems absolutely certain, and Geralt has no reason to think it’s anything other than a good time. He has several restoratives and stasis vials in his satchel, should Jaskier be wrong.

* * *

They take their harvest– which looks like way too much, in Geralt’s mind, confirming that this is to be Jaskier’s new addiction– and dry it out between book pages as they complete their job and head back to the town.

As soon as they unpack in the inn Jaskier is shaking the book out and placing his dried herbs and flowers into a large jam jar.

“Can we try tonight?”

Geralt is a little surprised that Jaskier even thought to ask. He normally just _does_ things. The Witcher finds himself nodding. He’s tired from the hunt. If this works as advertised, he’ll be able to satisfy his man without giving himself yet another exhaustion headache.

Beaming, the bard puts his jar of drug aside and picks up his lute.

“I’m going to play and summon up some dinner for us. You sleep, or meditate, or whatever the fuck it is. I won’t be long.”

* * *

Geralt does, indeed, meditate. He also uses a bucket of fresh water to clean the blood and dirt from both himself and his armour, before his bard returns, lute on his back and a bowl of (mostly) rabbit and carrot stew in each hand.

The bard apparently has retained some of his old tricks, for he pulls several crusty white rolls from the pockets of his trousers and offers first choice to Geralt. They eat together in near silence, both ravenous.

Jaskier, strangely, pauses when his bowl is mostly broth. He pulls some fat from the small chunk of bacon in his bowl and sprinkles some grassier parts of his plants in it before heating it above their portable oil burner.

He tips his heated mixture back into his bowl and goes about finishing it, using the remaining bread to mop up anything that’s left behind.

“It’ll take a while to kick in, because I ate so much before. Can I brush your hair out?”

Geralt nods, as he always does. He likes the calm, relaxing companionship before they play.

Jaskier takes his time, carding through the platinum strands with his fingers before rescuing their brush from one of their many bags. Really, they should travel slightly lighter, but who wants to give up on all their little comforts?

He brushes slowly, firm over the scalp and lighter, almost tickling, over the nape of Geralt’s neck. He’s always found that a slightly erotic activity, especially as the lighter touches make his Witcher shiver and the harder scrapes force out groans of pleasure.

When touching Geralt’s hair becomes an exercise of pure effort, for all he can think is how _wonderfully soft_ it is, and how _pretty_ the colour is, he pulls it into a single braid, out of the way.

“I’m ready,” he says, which really means _I’m high._

He leaves his lover, strips off,and goes to bend over the bed. The frame is set high, thankfully, so he can bury his torso in the slightly scratchy sheets (even that feels good) with his legs merely angled to the floor, rather than bent.

The plant isn’t really hallucinatory. With his eyes open, everything looks like it’s moving a little, but only if he tries to focus on any one particular thing. With his eyes shut, he hyper-focuses on the physical. The room is warm from the fire, but there is a cool draft coming in from under the door that brushes over his skin. It’s rather pleasant. His dick, already half-hard in anticipation, enjoys the contrast between the poor quality blanket touching his tip and the slightly silky under-sheet sliding underneath his sac. He feels a little like he’s swaying, but it knows it’s the almost drunken high.

Geralt potters around behind him for he doesn’t have a clue how long, before coming to stand just behind Jaskier’s feet.

He lifts his arm and simply lets the falls of the flogger thump onto Jaskier’s back, right between his shoulder-blades. Jaskier shudders. The drop had come with a stirring of the air, a cool breeze, just before the pure thud had massaged Jaskier a little more into the mattress. The bard feels himself relaxing into his ‘vent’ space quicker than he ever has before. He can’t put his focus anywhere himself. He has no choice but to float around, noticing each sensation and allowing it to leave him again as he moves on to something else.

Geralt, as well-trained in Jaskier as he is, twists his wrist as he pulls his arm back. the flogger turns and drags, so, so slowly, down Jaskier’s back and over the swell of his arse before leaving his skin completely. Jaskier lets out a quiet, breathy moan.

“How does that feel, bard?”

To Jaskier, Geralt’s voice is deeper and smoother than ever, like a chocolate velvet whisky. A shiver waves its way through his entire body.

“Guhhhh,” is the best he can manage. Geralt, thankfully, recognises the noise and doesn’t attribute it purely to the drug.

“Darling, I’m going to need you to tell me your safeword. Just in case. Say it now, then I won’t make you talk, okay?”

Jaskier grumbles something likely rather uncomplimentary into the bedding before turning his head to one side. “Roach.”

Geralt gives a nod and leans over to rub the back of Jaskier’s neck, forcing him to straighten his spine out again.

He repeats the first flogger motion several times, waiting until Jaskier’s breaths are slow and even and his skin is covered in goosebumps before he starts the flogging itself.

Jaskier isn’t focussed on anything when the first quick, light swats bring him back to the present. The flogger itself is very heavy but, like with any weapon, Geralt knows how to manipulate it as desired. The initial hits are slightly stingy but not very painful at all.

Jaskier lets his brain image each land as a small cut, despite knowing that his skin isn’t even red. It’s very difficult to leave anything other than a short-lived pinkness with a well-made play flogger.

When Jaskier starts floating out again Geralt starts hitting harder, bring his whole arm into play. He watches carefully as Jaskier arches back for more and allows himself to be flattened back with each blow. A flogger hasn’t be painful enough for Jaskier in a long time. It’s so wonderful to be able to bring their old friend out again.

For Jaskier, the flogger stops stinging and morphs into heavy, massaging thuds that sink into his muscles and turn him to jelly. He’s barely registering the impact anymore, just happily thrumming atop the buzz of plant and endorphins and anticipation.

His dick is leaking pre-cum all over the sheets.

He doesn’t know how long Geralt flogs him for, only that when the toy is finally dropped on the floor and the other man drops his weight on top of him, his torso is warm and sweaty with exertion. He’s like a particularly heavy blanket. Jaskier would be content to stay there forever, if he wasn’t so incredibly aroused.

He’d overestimated his tolerance for the substance, given the number of years since he’d last imbibed. He wouldn’t manage penetrative sex, but then again, it might be a novelty to do something else.

He whines, low in the back of his throat. Geralt knows him far too well to assume it’s anything other than a shameless request.

He shifts his weight back onto his feet and rocks his hips, grinding his own erection into the cleft of Jaskier’s arse.

“Want something, Darling?”

Jaskier nods and pushes a hand back against Geralt’s arm uselessly. The Witcher recognises the request and stand up, allowing the bard to flip over.

Jaskier reaches for Geralt’s leather trousers and pulls out his dick.

He knows he won’t be able to do anything fancy, but a blow job is a blow job, at the end of the day, and he loves giving one.

He sucks the tip into his mouth and suckles gently before starting to bob up and down at a steady pace. His hand covers what his mouth can’t at the same speed and relative tightness in grip.

Geralt’s cock feels warm and so hard, and the brush of it over his tongue is _fantastic_.

Jaskier sucks and sucks and sucks, the same rhythm the entire time. His mind floats off somewhere in the clouds and he flies around happily taking in everything and nothing. When a hand on his head pulls him back to the room, he finds himself still sucking, exactly the same as before, his mouth tasting the sharp flavour of pre-cum.

He opens his eyes and finds Geralt’s face pinched like he’s been on the edge for a very, very long time.

He widens his eyes and manipulates his tongue to the vein at the top of the shaft. His free hand comes out to gently stroke over his Witcher’s balls.

That’s all it takes, he’s been teasing so much. Geralt cums with a groan, and Jaskier swallows it all.

His own cock is swollen and heavy. He doesn’t know if he’s even got enough left in him to cum.

But Geralt leans over and down and kisses his bard hard, forcing his tongue into the other man’s mouth.

The leather and zipper of his trousers scrape over Jaskier’s cock. He kisses Geralt back desperately and undulates his hips against the fabric, feeling the slightly sharp catch of the zipper teeth.

It take less than thirty seconds. A filthy kiss and Geralt’s trousers are all he needs to cover them both in seed.

Geralt pulls back with a low chuckle.

“Good?”

“Uhuh. So good. Thank you, my love.”


End file.
